Rico sat on the edge of the bed, trying to figure how long Olivia had been gone. When he’d come to, he’d found himself staring into a suppressor attached to the barrel of a glock.
The man holding the gun was careless. Now he lay on the floor a few feet away, dead. Rico stood and searched the room. She’d taken only a few of her things, her passport, both the 9mms, one cell. The fancy clothes were hanging in the closet.
He glanced at the man on the floor. The fucker had called in, and now Silva knew Rico was alive, knew about Olivia. He released a loud breath, took out his cell and punched in a number from memory.
“I’m blown. I need to come in, now.”
A long silence. “You sure?”
When he didn’t answer, the voice said, “Agency offices one hour.”
Rico’s boss, Jason Greer, stared at him from across the desk. “What the fuck were you thinking?” He held up a hand. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“You think they know who she is?” Palmer, Greer’s second in command, spoke up.
Rico washed a hand over his face. “Yes. And they got it from someone in a government agency.” He shot them each a look. “For all I know, it’s one of you.”
“Take it easy, O’Conner.”
It had been a long time since anyone had used his real name, and his face must have shown his surprise.
“Take it easy. Palmer is okay,” Greer placated. “Besides, after this, I doubt you’ll be undercover again.”
“All the more reason I don’t want my real name known.” Anger rose in him and he made no effort to hide it. He gave Palmer a deadly look, wanting the man to know he was serious.
“Take it easy,” Palmer said. “Jason is ready to retire. I’ve been working with him for three months preparing a changeover. I know all there is to know about you. I can assure you no information came from this agency.”
Rico looked from man to man. In that moment he knew it was over. He was done. These men knew nothing about him. Olivia was the only one who knew anything about him. All he wanted was to find her. To be with her for the rest of his life. He had to trust them to find her.
“O’Conner.”
“Rico,” he snapped. “Rico Cortes.” The only name she knew him by. He pinched his eyes shut. Why hadn’t he given her his name?
“Right,” Palmer said. “It will take six hours before we can have a satellite in position to start searching for the yacht.”
“Six hours!” Rico stood. “No way, we need it now.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve been here three hours.”
Both men shook their heads. “Can’t be done until then,” Greer said. “We can use the time to prepare.”
“I want to be with the rescue team,” Rico demanded.
Palmer and Greer nodded.
“If the team leader says okay. We can’t make that decision.”
He’d put her in this position, and he was damn sure going to be there to get her out.
“There’s another wrinkle.”
Rico’s blood ran cold.
“Seems like everyone wants to be in on this,” Palmer said.
“What?”
“Her crew. They’re here and want in on any rescue. Her CO is on his way. A Coast Guard admiral is interested.”
“How did her crew know where she was?”
“Resourceful bastards.” Palmer grinned. “Seems one of them has a relative high up in the state police. He asked him to put out an unofficial watch for her car. Came back she got a warning ticket for speeding on I-95. The trooper remembered her. Said she was with a man and they were going to Miami. They’ve been giving Miami Dade a fit. Got everyone thinking you kidnapped her.”
Rico shook his head. “This is a cluster fuck.”
“It gets better. The feds in Jacksonville think she’s aiding a drug smuggler. The Coast Guard denies this. Their official line is you forced her to come here. Together, the two of you have created one hell of a situation.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Rico sank into a chair, holding his pounding head in his hands.
Palmer rose. “I have to talk to some people.” He paused next to Rico. “We’ll find her.”
Greer leaned back in his chair. “You’re done, aren’t you?”
Surprised, Rico looked at him.
“Oh, I’ve seen that look before. With you it’s been coming a long time. Frankly, I’ve been worried you would go the other way. You were too comfortable in that world. There was no reason for you to come back.”
Rico said nothing, only stared at Greer defiantly.
“You and I both know we’re never going to nail Silva. You’ve given us enough to keep hitting his operations. Taking a bite here and there. What worried me is that, after two years, you were no closer to finding who was selling out undercovers than when you first went in.”
Both men were silent for several minutes.
“It’s the woman isn’t it? You knew her before all this got started.”
“How did…”
Greer shrugged. “You know they won’t let you walk away. You’ll have to jump through a lot of agency and bureaucratic hoops.”
Rico stood and paced. He was tired and lightheaded. The air in the windowless room seemed to be gone. “How long before they cut me loose?”
“It varies by the man and the job—generally a year to eighteen months. I’ve seen longer.”
“But—”
Greer held up a hand in a
stop there
gesture. “Not up to me.”
Palmer returned. “The satellite will be ours in five hours.”
Rico slumped.
“We need that much time to put together a rescue, O’Conner—sorry—Rico.”
“It could be several more hours before the yacht is located.” The thought ran his blood cold again. “How long will the satellite be ours?”
“Until we find her,” Palmer said. “We’re using the Patriot Act to our full advantage. She’s a military officer working directly for Homeland Security abducted by suspected drug smugglers. And we want to find the internal spy.”
“Why can’t we get the satellite now?” A desperate feeling crawled up his spine.
“There are priorities. National and world security for example,” Greer said.
“We are on this. We
will
find her. We
are
taking care of business,” Palmer added.
“There’s one more thing,” Rico said. Greer and Palmer looked at him impatiently. “I think I know the name of the informer.”
Olivia forced her eyes open and found herself in a darkened room. Her mind a blank, she couldn’t recall how she got there. Worse, she hurt all over.
Carefully she flexed her arms and legs. They felt heavy, as if weighed down with sand bags, and were slow to respond. Her head pounded. Her mouth had no saliva, only a thick paste. She rolled her tongue over dry lips and teeth. Blood. Memory returned in a painful flash.
Baker.
The yacht.
The spray.
Her breath caught.
Rico.
She pushed herself up on her elbows and through a blurry haze took in her surroundings. Enough light seeped in around the drapes to see the large and lavishly decorated room. Blinking furiously to clear her vision, she brought it into focus. A sofa and two chairs to the left, behind them a wall lined with drapes. To the right, a bank of doors. The closet, she thought. Past the doors, a bathroom.
A man holding a semi-automatic weapon appeared in the open passageway, looked her over and left as suddenly as he came.
Cautiously she slid to the edge of the bed and planted her feet on the floor. A different man appeared holding a tray of water bottles and a pitcher of what looked like orange juice. Without speaking, he set the tray on a small table and retreated.
Wobbly legs carried her to the door. She turned the knob and found it wasn’t locked. Opening it slightly, she came face to face with the guard and his rifle. He put his hand to the handle, closing it with a thud.
That thud caused a bolt of pain to ricochet in her head.
Water.
She needed water to flush her system of the inhaled drug. She opened a bottle and guzzled most of it down. It didn’t do much for the crappy taste. She finger brushed her teeth as she took unsteady steps to the windows. Now if she could get rid of the dull hum in her head…She swept aside drapes covering floor-to-ceiling windows. “Shit.”
They were at sea. The sound wasn’t in her head, it was the yacht’s engines.
The door swung open again. A tray with coffee and food was pushed into the room by yet another man. He looked her over, shook his head and left. What the hell was wrong with him?
The coffee smelled good. It was strong and washed away the bad taste. Cup in hand she explored the cabin. The doors did open to a closet, and her purse, bag and boots were there on the floor. She crouched and dug through her things. The cell, guns, pen, anything she could use as a weapon were gone. No surprise. She sat back on her haunches, bit her lower lip and glanced around the room.
“Damn. Damn and double damn.”
She rose and caught her image in the mirror. The woman looking at her was smeared with dried blood. Baker’s blood. Her hair, face, clothes. A wave of revulsion triggered a gag reflex that took several deep breaths to suppress. If there were surveillance cameras in the room she didn’t want them to see her lose it.
With deliberate, controlled movements Olivia peeled off the bloody shirt and spread it on a chair. Sliding out of her jeans her fingers touched the SIM card in the little coin pocket, and a sliver of hope worked its way through her. As she worked the jeans down her legs she carefully extracted and palmed it. The jeans joined her shirt. The bloodstained shirt and pants were a warning. A reminder of what she was capable of.
She retrieved clean clothes from her bag and went to the bathroom, slipping the SIM card into the jeans pocket. Gold fixtures gleamed against dark granite countertops. A Japanese soaking tub sat in one corner.
Shedding her bra and panties, Olivia twisted the handles on full blast, and stepped into the shower. The water at her feet turned red, then pink. When it ran clear she slid to the floor, hugged her knees and sobbed. Body-racking sobs.
She hadn’t cried like this when she lost her mother and not even when she’d lost Danny. Rico’s loss was more than she could bear. He was gone—dead because of her. Her arrogance. The water had gone cold before she had the courage to stand.
She dried and examined the cuts and bruises on her face and body. Baker’s pounding left welts and dark red splotches on her side and shoulder. They were damn sore. A dark bluish circle had formed on her cheek where Silva jabbed her with the gun.
Her fingers brushed over the forming bruise on the inside of her arm. Rico had given her that one when she fought him. She shook her head to chase that thought away and touched the little piece of plastic in her pocket that could be her ticket off this boat.
She applied makeup to cover bruises on her face only as a point of honor. She wanted everyone on board to know she was in control.
Rico.
She put her palms on the counter and pinched her eyes shut to ward off tears. After a moment she straightened, glaring at her reflection. “I promise your death will count. It will mean something. You and Danny will be remembered.”
Olivia took croissants, fruit and a cup of coffee to the small balcony.
Eat when you can.
She watched the Atlantic slide by, considering her options. The pitch of the ship shifted. They were changing course. She stood and got a fix on the sun. They’d been traveling north, maybe northeast, now they were swinging to the west.
Within twenty minutes they were heading south. To Miami? There was no way for her to know exactly where in the Atlantic she was, if it was the Atlantic. They could be in the Gulf of Mexico or the Caribbean. No, the swells were coming from the east. Definitely the Atlantic.
Her cabin was midship of the yacht’s main deck. She leaned out over the railing to see the bridge on the deck above her. An armed man stared back at her. The bridge windows were heavily tinted. No way to see inside.
She had to get her hands on a weapon. Learn the lay of the yacht, determine escape routes. A yacht this size would have at least five lifeboats and maybe a couple of jet skis aboard. Getting her hands on a cell would be nice.
She studied the door to the room. Was it locked now that she was up and moving? Only one way to find out—she turned the handle and it opened. An armed guard stood outside. He looked her up and down and sniffed. When he made no attempt to restrain her, she stepped into the hallway and into her plan.
Olivia decided to start at the top of the yacht and work her way down. She followed the passageway in search of stairs, opening doors to other cabins as she went. All were empty. She stepped into the yacht’s spectacular main salon. Windows lined either side, giving panoramic views of the ocean.
Against the wall was a bar with polished brass fixtures and dark wood that would put the dive she met Rico in to shame. A baby grand piano stood to the middle of the room. Opposite it was a floating staircase. Crystal, sculptures, and art graced every table and wall. Despite the circumstances, she smiled. It was beautiful, no matter who owned it. It reminded her of the night she first saw Rico’s place.
Her shoulder twitched and she moved quickly to the deck beyond the salon. Outside, she took a deep breath of sea air to chase the thought of him away. It didn’t work.
The aft of the deck below held a swimming pool. Above her an armed man stood outside the bridge house watching her. From inside the salon her guard watched also.
Port side of the yacht were stairs leading to the bridge. She went back to the salon’s floating staircase and judged it would take her right up into the bridge too.
Before she could set a foot on the first step, her guard made a sound she interpreted as “go no farther.” He shook his head, gesturing for her to come away.
“Okay.” She quickly passed him, headed to the deck and the outer stairs. The guard followed, but made no attempt to stop her from ascending.
Before anyone on the deck realized where she was going, she opened the bridge door like she was the owner and stepped inside. The bridge was massive, with a 360 view of the ocean. Three uniformed crewmen sat in large leather chairs watching ten screens in the control console.
Instantly, they were up, ordering her to leave. Two spoke Spanish. The third, who she took to be the captain, spoke English. She took a step closer. One man advanced toward her menacingly. She took two more steps, until she could see the screen displays. The captain put a hand to his side arm.
“You are not allowed here. Get out.”
She stopped, and scanned each monitor display.
“Get this woman out of here,” he ordered.
A hand inside her waistband pulled her back, her guard more than likely. She let him pull. Walking backward she continued to watch the consoles. She recognized the land mass blipping bright green on the radar display. The crescent shape of the bay told her they were northeast of the Bahamas. She knew it well. The little town of West End, Indian Key Light. Latitude 26 42.3, longitude 078 59.8. She was ninety-five miles from Miami and sixty-eight from West Palm. She had a chance.
Outside, the guard slammed her against the bulkhead. Olivia went limp, stared straight ahead and made no attempt to stop him. He rubbed the rough stubble on his filthy face against her cheek, and she caught the disgusting smell of his stale cigarette and alcohol breath mixed with a foul body odor.
The captain stepped onto the deck, and she turned her head toward him. The foul smelling creep licked her exposed neck. She raised her hands to his chest, prepared to fight.
“You have orders not to touch her. Step back.”
The man grunted and did as told. Interesting.
“I want to talk to Silva. Now,” she said, advancing on the captain.
“He is not aboard.”
She stopped. “I don’t believe you.”
“What you believe is nothing to me. He will be joining us later this afternoon. You can speak to him then.” The man turned and retreated inside.
Olivia looked at her guard. He stood, leering at her, licking his lips. He grabbed his crotch and jerked his body in her direction.
Leaving him behind, she descended to the pool deck. A room similar in size to the main salon held pool tables, game machines, another bar, treadmills and other exercise equipment. Was there anything this yacht didn’t have?
She went aft, opening each door she passed looking for the ship’s galley. One opened to an elevator. Before smelly could reach her, she stepped inside and went down. The door opened directly into a busy kitchen. Quickly, she scanned the room for guards and weapons. No guards, no guns but plenty of knives.
Her eyes did find something she’d been looking for—the yacht’s layout and floor plan. This deck held the kitchen, laundry, staff quarters, dining room and gathering room. Below them was the power plant and forward of that deck was a small craft launch. The latter, she was very interested in.
The galley was the last stop for the elevator. Olivia used the stairs to descend to the power plant level.
The engines and turbines were as impressive as the main salon. Spotless, shining chrome and perfect paint. Silva must spend a million a year on maintenance alone. She heard footsteps on the stairs. Her guard. She rushed toward the small craft launch area indicated on the schematic. This close to land, any craft, even jet skis, could be used for her escape.
She pushed open the bulkhead door, and looked for posted emergency operation instructions. She found them on the far wall, along with six personal water craft, four seventeen-foot zodiacs and two twenty-foot ski boats. Her ride home.
“Get her out of here,” a gruff voice said from behind.
A hand clamped on her arm and her guard pulled her from the room, past a man in blue pants and white shirt with Engineer embroidered in blue script over the left pocket. He wiped his hands on a small towel and watched her intently. Three more men joined him.
“Don’t let her back down here. Ya hear?” the man called after them.
But she would be back. Because Mr. Engineer had a cell phone clipped to his belt.
Olivia’s explorations ended, she had the information she needed. Now she had to put it all together and make an escape plan. On the main sundeck, she curled up in a chair.
“I’m hungry,” she told her guard. “Have the kitchen send something.”
He glared a moment, then disappeared inside.
She closed her eyes and went over all she’d seen. The deck floor plans. The location of stairs, inside and out. Watercraft. Who had weapons. And
the cell phone
. Everything she needed was here. All she had to do was gain access to them.
A small sound caused her to turn. A new guard stood a few feet away. Immediately she knew this man was different. For almost twenty years she had lived and breathed everything military. She could spot the one military man in a crowd of thousands. Older, larger, more muscular with a brutally hard face, he was also better equipped than her other guard. A 9mm holstered at his waist and a semi-automatic rifle hung over his shoulder.
“Did you bring my food?”
Casually sliding his dark glasses to the top of his shaved head, he gave her a piercing look.
A commotion on the bridge deck above broke her attention from baldy. Several men scurried around. She went to the rail to get a better view and caught a familiar sound on the wind. A helicopter. Her heart jumped with excitement. Leaning as far over the railing as she dared, she swiveled her head from side to side to catch sight of the chopper.
Excitement vanished as fast as it arrived. A civilian bird. Not her rescue.
The harsh sound of metal grinding against metal drew her attention to the deck above. To her astonishment, the deck slowly extended to provide a landing area for the chopper. She felt the yacht’s subtle speed and course adjustment. The captain would be moving into the wind to allow an easier landing. Deck landings were difficult even for experienced pilots.
Olivia shielded her eyes and watched as the bird maneuvered closer. Silva smiled down at her. A man sitting across from him looked at her, nodding. Baker’s taped face appeared behind Silva’s shoulder. A wave of anger crashed over her and she made for the upper deck. The new guard blocked her way.
He held the automatic rifle diagonally in front of him with both hands, muzzle pointing up. Not a firing position. She tried to squeeze past. Using the rifle, he shoved her. She seized the rifle barrel and shoved back. He shook the weapon from her grip and jammed the butt into her left breast. Her knees buckled and she scrambled to maintain her footing. He pressed his hand to an ear bud, listening intently.